


Making Overtures

by Stakebait



Category: Angel The Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-02
Updated: 2010-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The West coast music scene is smaller than you'd think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Overtures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zyre](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Zyre).



There was a man in the back playing chords in the air. Usually air guitar was all about the imaginary audience, guys with thrashing hair doing big clanging strums that made Oz's brain hurt for the imaginary music. But this guy sat alone with a beer, and moved through the fingerings with gestures so small and controlled that it took Oz most of the first set to even realize that's what they were. They were mostly right, though, and only a half-step behind the beat.

He caught Oz's attention mainly 'cause nothing else did, here at the last and least gig of the late, not-so-great Frozen Food Aisle.

He missed Dingos. Dingos had sucked, but it was a distinctive suckitude. It was theirs, nobody else had sucked quite like it. Frozen was actually not a bad band, but sometimes not bad was worse than awful. Awful was where you started. Not bad was where you ended up.

And this was where they'd ended up, playing a diner turned coffee shop turned ironic kitsch bar in Portland, Oregon, because Seattle is over and California has been getting mighty weird, these latter days.

Oz knew he could have taken off for parts unknown again, especially now that the band was ka with a capital put. But after last time it seemed pointless. That was a quest, cue the coconut shells. This would be tourism, and tourism is an ugly thing. Oz has done detached and as far as he's concerned, it's as over as Seattle.

Besides, he doesn't want to get too far from the trees. Nothing else is tall like that, not even the mountains.

When the last set was over Oz said his laconic goodbyes to Fribble and Sam. They were good people. Not his people, but good. He collected his two contractually obligated beers at once and took them to the back table.

Oz had pulled up a chair and deposited the beverages before the guy bothered to look up.

"I'm not really –" he began. He looked bored. He looked like he wanted to look bored, like he'd really put work into the bored thing just in case anybody might miss how not worth his time they were. Oz had to respect that this was a man dedicated to practicing.

"Like this," Oz said, and ran through the correct fingering to "Dalai Lama Boogie", the weird blues thing with the chanting that was his main contribution to the ex-band's slender repertoire of originals. He was going electric these days, and as always the notes sounded strange, muffled and flat, when he fingered them without the juice.

Wordlessly the guy held out his hands and Oz handed the guitar over. He ran through it a couple times, total concentration, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was just slightly open and Oz could barely see the tip of his tongue. The guy looked younger, playing, like he got caught in the rain and the slick just ran right off.

Oz liked him better not slick. Liked the tongue, liked the young, liked his lips on the bottle when he drank afterwards, like he was thirsty.

"Lindsey McDonald," he said.

"Daniel Osbourne. Oz," Oz returned.

"As in the Wizard of?"

Sometimes it seemed like he'd gotten that question in every bar in the Pacific Northwest. Oz shrugged and gave his patented answer. "No man, no curtain."

And then, 'cause he was curious what would get under that slick skin already settling back into place, "Why, you looking for a heart or a brain?" He never added the part about the way home. Oz didn't offer people shit he didn't have to give.

Lindsey's lips twisted like he was drinking the dregs of a joke nobody would get. "I'll pass on the body parts, thanks."

He passed Oz back the guitar, which Oz propped up on an empty chair like a third party to the conversation, and took another swig. "What's this?"

"Winternacht. It's local. Makes me feel like a squirrel." Oz took a gulp himself. Gathering nuts for the winter, he meant. All that rich and roasted stuff makes Oz think of running through redwoods and unmarked snow. But the guy – Lindsey – didn't ask. Oz got the feeling that was 'cause he didn't give a shit. That was cool. Oz doesn't deal in sense, so it was lucky Lindsey didn't need any.

"Why're you here?" Lindsey asked.

Oz shrugged. "You looked serious."

"You like serious?" Oz couldn't figure out if that was a challenge or flirtation or yes.

"Sometimes."

"You play guitar long?"

Lindsey held both his hands out in front of him and studied them like they belonged to someone else. "Left one – 15 years. Right one – 15 months." He waved the right one. "We got some catching up to do."

Oz nodded, taking that in. "Sounds like a story."

Lindsey shook his head. "Used to be. Now it's just a pain in the ass."

He rolled up his sleeve, showed Oz the join where the new flesh met the old. "Guy who gave me this wasn't much of a musician. I practice but it's not enough. Gotta soak it in through the skin. I go anyplace there's music." Lindsey looked around again, gave the rest of the artsy crowd the benefit of his disinterest. "Even here."

"I'm starting a band," Oz said. Didn't know it till it came out of his mouth but it tasted true.

"Thought you had one."

"No more. You interested?"

"I'm not ready." Lindsey leaned forward, betraying interest in spite of himself. The cheap candle on the table lightened his eyes. There it was again, Oz thought. The something.

Oz nodded. "Yeah. Better that way. Get there together."

Lindsey's smile went crooked again. "And then? Rich, famous, tour the world?"

Oz shook his head. "Try something else. Get unready again. Make it up as we go along, till we're not going the same way."

Lindsey sat back again, till the shadows hit his eyes, and Oz wondered what he'd said to lose him. The first time in a long time that he'd cared enough to wonder.

"You're some kind of hippy." It wasn't a question.

"Werewolf," Oz corrected, as if those were two things that got mixed up all the time. "But I can see where the shaggy thing could go either way."

Lindsey laughed and Oz damned near howled along with it. That was a good sound, smoky and fierce.

"Lawyer," he said.

Oz shrugged. "I'm very broadminded."

Lindsey's hand was on his knee, a little puddle of warm spreading up Oz's thigh. He caught Lindsey's eye, held it. "This a pass or a test?" he asked conversationally.

Lindsey looked down. "Oh, yeah. I should tell you, that hand's evil, too."

Which was, Oz was acutely aware, not an answer.

"Just the hand?"

"I gave it up."

Oz nodded. "Evil hand, huh?"

"Yup."

"Give me the other one."

Oz's lips, licked clean of beer foam, slid down and around a single finger. His fingers could feel sharp tendons half-buried in Lindsey's wrist. His tongue rasped over calluses in all the familiar places. Familiar strange, like seeing yourself for real instead of in a mirror. He closed his eyes, swallowed once, and sucked hard.

When Oz opened his eyes, Lindsey looked young again.

"We going soon?" he asked Oz, and his voice was shaken.

Oz picked up the guitar. "We're gone."


End file.
